


Richie Tozier: Real American

by IfItHollers



Series: Things that Happen After [3]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Death Threats, Facebook, Feminism, Gun Control, Harry potter reference, Jimmy John's reference, M/M, Monologue, Police Brutality, Richie Tozier's Sense of Humor, Richie Tozier's Stand Up Act, Richie Tozier's hypothetical daughter (OC), a Lebanese-American child with a potato clock, actual real-life serial killers, eating ass, gay sex jokes, getting engaged, in poor taste, jerking it, mass shootings, the baby lesbians from Panera (OCs), the gay optometrist, the guy in your office who eats at his desk and chews with his mouth open, the problem of violence in America
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 10:29:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22294507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IfItHollers/pseuds/IfItHollers
Summary: Armed with his own material, the formerly-edgy stand-up comic embraces a different kind of stage persona, offering his takes on growing up closeted and coming out at forty-one, his friendship with fashion designer Beverly Marsh, commitment, and gun control in the United States.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Audra Phillips, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Things that Happen After [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1490567
Comments: 57
Kudos: 415





	Richie Tozier: Real American

**Author's Note:**

  * For [qianwanshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qianwanshi/gifts).



> Hey, this is not the obligatory coming-out stand-up special I promised when I was working on Things That Happen After Eddie Lives--this is later down the line, when Richie's already publicly out but before the events of Bill Denbrough Writes an Ending. It's also not long enough to be a complete special--apparently John Mulaney's "Comeback Kid" comes out to just under 10K and that's my frame of reference. But I was on my phone messaging [qianwanshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qianwanshi/pseuds/qianwanshi) about the guy chewing with his mouth open at lunch next to her, and I accidentally wrote 1,500 words of a standup special, and then I copy-pasted it to my phone and filled it out a little, and I accidentally wrote 5K of a standup special. So here it is, like, the second half of one of Richie's shows, in monologue format, with no stage directions or anything.
> 
> Content warnings: Oh my god. Okay. Uh, a ton of gay jokes, Richie being self-deprecating, Richie doesn't actually understand what radical feminism is but I promise you personally that Kay McCall is not a TERF, okay? Okay, references to _Henry V_ , _Harry Potter_ , Simon and Garfunkel, _Star Wars_ , and _Hannibal_ , Kathy Griffin, Richie has experienced homophobic backlash since he came out, Richie has also experienced deserved criticism for the content of his earlier specials, reference to _Jeopardy_ , implication that Richie voiced BB-8 in _The Force Awakens_ , implication that Eddie's company contracted with Jimmy John's, EXTREME TRIGGER WARNINGS for gun violence and mass shootings, mild trigger warning for sexual assault (nonconsensual groping), mentions of that thing people do where they suggest that women owe men sex for any reason, mentions of animal death, mentions of police brutality, mentions of racial profiling, mentions of real-life serial murderers and cannibals, semi-graphic sexual humor.

One of my best friends is a fashion designer. I know. I know, that confuses me as well. The thing is, we were best friends long before she—I know! I know, I’m a gay man who has a best friend who’s a fashion designer, but if you look back on my whole oeuvre—I’m legally required to say words like ‘oeuvre’ now, by the way, if I don’t use at least one pretentious French word in each set my agent is just going to beat the shit out of me when I get off stage, right Steve? Yeah. Yeah, I see you, Steve, I see you. Anyway, the astonishing thing about the fact that Beverly Marsh—I know! My best friend is Beverly Marsh! I’m surprised that any of you that have the good taste to like her and cheer for her are at this show!—the astonishing thing about my friendship with Beverly Marsh, besides _all_ the other astonishing things about it, is that she’s a woman who is still willing to speak to me. And Bev’s best friend—I’mma be real with you here, she has better friends than me. I don’t have better friends than her, but she can and does do way better—is a radical feminist who has published all these books on why men say and think awful things about women, and while I said those things—I didn’t _think_ them, but I said them, I put them out into the air and that’s just as bad.

So every time we meet up at Bev’s—like, at Bev’s fucking wedding—there are all these pictures of Beverly, looking beautiful—I know when a woman is drop-dead kick-you-in-the-throat gorgeous, okay? I have these glasses _specifically_ so that I can see that. That’s why they’re so thick, actually. I was like eleven, I went into the optometrist, and they were like, “LOOK AT THESE PICTURES OF WOMEN! WHICH ONE IS THE SEXIEST? WHICH ONE DO YOU MOST WANT TO BONE?” And I was like, “Uh, uh, uh… E?” because I was still hung up on my buddy’s knees under his rainbow short-shorts. And the optometrist was like, “Hmm. This child needs _very strong glasses_.” And then when I came out back in like 2017 I just never got around to making an appointment with the gay optometrist, because I was like already in a committed relationship, and we don’t really look at porn without each other anymore—it’s not like a formal thing, it’s just how it turned out—and I didn’t really want to be the guy who had to take his boyfriend to the doctor with him, and I didn’t want to be up in that chair with the things over my eyes with the doctor going, “Which dong is more monster? One? Or two? One? Or two?” And that’s just because my boyfriend disagrees with me literally all the time—I didn’t want to pick the wrong dong and hear him just _sigh_ in the little guest chair. “I guess I’d rather fuck two? I don’t know. They’re about the same?” And hear him go: _“Hhhh.”_

But anyway, there are these photos of Beverly’s wedding—I was voted out of the wedding party, by the way, so I’m not in those photos, but there are a couple of her like pity-dancing with me in her beautiful white dress, with my arms up here because I’m drunk and white an awkward—with Beverly and her husband, and in all the photos, the maid of honor is looking at me like she’s about to rip my intestines out of my body with her beak. I’m not calling her a harpy, I’m saying that she has the laser-focus of an eagle, and I am prey, man, I am over six feet of useless prey, and she’s ready to gut me with her Louboutins. That’s another pretentious French word for my quota, Steve. Do those accumulate? Like, do they roll over—if I say two in this set, do I have to say one in my next set? Yeah? Steve’s telling me yeah, they don’t roll over, so why the fuck did I learn to pronounce “Louboutin.”

I like to play up the fact that she’s a fashion designer when we hang out together. She took me to a red carpet thing that one time when her husband—which, by the way, have you _seen_ her husband? _Unf._ If the venue hadn’t made all you put your phones in those little sleeves I’d be like, look up _Beverly Marsh Ben Handsome wedding photos_ right now. But I’ve gotten death threats, so all of you have to suffer, and you have to wait the two hours before you, too, can go home and jerk it to my best friend’s husband. Trust me. Trust me. All my friends are weirdly successful—Ben, like, has his own job and everything and I’ve been told he’s pretty good at it. The BBC certainly seem to think so, they asked him to make their new radio tower. He’s got this weird kind of hermit architect thing going on and I’m just like, good for him. It’s so empowering that he has a job too, his wife must be so proud of him. And my other best friend, Bill, he’s a writer, he writes horror, yeah, whatever—but he married an actual movie star. And I’m just blown away by all my guy friends just marrying up, like _what_? We drank the same water for like the first fifteen years of our lives! What did you get out of it that I didn’t? But we walk into the gathering and I’m like, “Ms. Beverly Marsh-Hanscom, who are you wearing?”

And she’s like, “Yves St. Laurent”—Steve, does that count? Do they not count if they’re names? Is that the problem? Do I have to learn how to pronounce _ouef_? _Oeuf?_ Queef? Sorry, Steve. We gotta have some kind of continuity between my old stuff and my new stuff, and that was it, right there. You saw it here first, folks. You, you… you happy few.

Actually Bev says, “Oh, I designed this,” because _like fuck_ is she wearing some _dude_ designer when she could be out there singlehandedly creating clothes not just for herself but also for the masses, the things that shield us from the sun and rain and snow and the people who throw garbage at me when I walk outside naked!

I just stand up here and talk, Bev _creates_ things, and I show up at her house—she lives in like buttfuck nowhere, the Midwest—and I’m like, “Beverly, I’m so cold!”

And Beverly is like, “This is a peacoat. It’s what adult men wear.” And then she puts it on me and I look down at myself like Harry Potter with the invisibility cloak—my body’s gone!

Bev designs for all sizes—she’s got the new plus-size line coming out, she’s very proud of it—because she says that your body isn’t a problem that you solve with strategic dressing, and I’m sure that’s true. For like, most of the population. But like, I hired someone to tell me how to dress for this—he was like, “put on a fucking suit, you’re forty,” and I was like, “thank you, here is some money.”

So I tried on this suit for Bev and she said, “Oh, honey, no,” and she _tailored my fucking suit_. Like, the price of this suit is now _far more than what I paid for it_ , because fashion designer Beverly Marsh fixed it with her magic hands and cut the threads off that little flap at the back, so now there’s a vent over my ass. The farts get out into the theater, now, instead of just being trapped here, increasing my total temperature under these fucking lights, making me sweat more. And you can smell that too, the ventilation is better—right, front row? I’m so sorry. It’s all Bev’s fault.

So our last get-together with all of our friends I walk in and I say, “Beverly Marsh, who are you wearing?” and I pretend like I’ve got a microphone and I’m a reporter because Bev actually has answers when reporters ask her that. I stand there—I barely look like my arms are attached to my body, I don’t know shit about clothes—but Bev knows what to say.

So she, like, tells me and then she smiles and says, “Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier, who are _you_ wearing?” Because she’s a good friend.

And I whip my left hand out of my jacket pocket and I say—and I’m not gonna say it here because that’s what we agreed upon—but I say _my fiancé’s fucking name,_ because I just got _engaged_ , motherfuckers.

I know! I know! Someone took a look at this and said, “Yeah, I literally want no better options for the rest of my life!” And he could do better! He could do so much better! He is exponentially hotter than me—not even like, the baseline hotter than me, which like, that’s not hard, he’s like… orders of magnitude out of my league!

I know that this might come as a surprise to you, being as I only so recently came out of the closet publicly. There were people who were like, “He’s not really gay, he’s just doing it for attention,” and people going, “Is he gay or is he just bisexual? Because he talked a lot about women.” And to them I just want to say—I am so sorry you thought any of those stories were true. I’m not gonna get too into what I know about women, but like… I am so sorry. I feel bad. For you. For me. For them, and they don’t even exist. If you think there is any woman who would date _this_ and then also allow me to treat her like that, I am sorry for your understanding of women, I am sorry that it seemed plausible that a woman would put up with that shit, and most of all, I’m going to sic Beverly’s maid of honor on you, go out and buy all her books and learn something, she’s like down the street in Chicago setting a dumpster full of bras on fire. That’s a joke that ages me. Let’s move on.

I’m marrying a dude! A dude is going to marry me! I told Steve I wanted to talk about this in my next set and we sat down and tried to map out how that would affect, like, my general audience, you know? There are people who get paid to figure out how badly I’m going to piss off people the next time I get up on a stage and open my mouth. And I was like, “Look, all these people jumped ship when I came out and said I like dick, do you think they’ll come back now that it’s not just like, the whole world of dick I’m after, it’s just one dick? Is that better, for them?”

And Steve was like, “No, because those people wanted to hear about your slutty noncommittal life with women—you’re actually getting further away from it, now that you’re going to be talking about married sex with a dude. Like, when you were still out picking up guys in bars—” Look at me, Steve thinks I have ever successfully gotten a man to come home with me from a bar, I don’t know how to break it to him. “—that was one thing, but they’re going to be very put-off by your stories about mutual masturbation and then putting on _Jeopardy_ and being asleep by nine.”

Steve didn’t say that. I embellished that, a little. I’m writing my own shit now, and that means I’m technically writing Steve’s shit, too. Every day he regrets letting me fire my ghostwriter a little bit more.

And knowing that your life is under such scrutiny is weird. It’s weird, it’s a weird sensation. I know that I have fucked up many times in my life, I will continue to fuck up. But like—I was maybe a C-list celebrity before I came out. Maybe. I don’t want to bite Kathy Griffin’s jokes here, so I will go so far as to say that _some_ people knew about me. Like, once, this college student came up to me in a Panera and was like, “I don’t know who you are, but my girlfriend loves you unironically,” and she— _that’s right! These were two tiny lesbians in a Panera! In Utah!_ —and she points behind her, and back in the booth there’s her girlfriend who’s just facepalming and going, “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare. Get back here. Leave the funnyman to eat his soup in peace.”

And then the first tiny lesbian asks me if I’ll sign her phone case for her, and I say sure, because this is Utah and what the fuck else is there better to do in Utah? And the phone case just _happens_ to be the little robot from _Star Wars_ , and I was like, “Oh, what a coincidence, because I did some of the sound effects for that character,” and she’s like, _“That was you?”_ Like, she just wanted me to sign her phone case. It didn’t have anything to do with me. And they took me off that project, so like, how good of a job can I have done with it anyway? I don’t blame her. But I fucking blew up after I came out—I have never had so many people wanting to talk to me at one time. Anyway, I guess check and see if she’s posted that phone case on eBay to fund her bread bowl addiction when you get home. After you jerk it to Bev’s husband’s wedding photos. You came to see a comedian and I’m giving you fucking homework.

So that was a thing that happened to me. That doesn’t happen to a lot of people. My fiancé never goes outside and thinks, “Someone might want me to sign something because I did such an okay job figuring out whether this advertising campaign launched too soon after the CEO was caught poaching endangered animals in Africa or something.” And that’s the way I like it, because I don’t really want to bother him. I mean, I want to bother him, that’s why I’m marrying him, what I mean is, I don’t want _you_ to bother him. He’s been married before—what happened to his wife? Nothing you can prove. Anyway. He’s, like, just a dude. He deserves a break.

But also, no one… in my whole life… is so dedicated to roasting me at every fucking turn. You think I talk shit about me? I get paid to talk shit about me. _But he taught me how._ He was like, the blueprint for properly excoriating every choice, every decision that Richie Tozier has made, is making, and will ever make, in public, and with great hilarity. He is _so fucking good_ at making fun of me, and I _love it_. Some people will say that’s unhealthy, be like, “Oh, Richie, are you okay? You should probably see a therapist.” But a) I have a therapist, and b), he’s the funniest fucking guy in the entire world, you think I’m going to take away just swaths of his best material? No no. I love him so fucking much, and he loves me back, and I know that not just because we swapped rings that symbolically chain us together like manacles so he has no way of getting away, but also because he roasts me _so well_. If you just feel kind of “eh,” about someone, you don’t have a lot to say about them. But if you’re in someone’s company all the fucking time, you know the embarrassing shit they do, but you know how to tell them about it without making them feel like absolute dogshit about it. I’m not gonna say that my fiancé laughs _with_ me, because he definitely laughs _at_ me, but I’d rather have him laughing at me than almost anything else, and that includes pitying me. Like, when someone really fucks up? When someone is so stupid in front of him—he just kind of looks at them like “I’m so sorry.” He feels bad for them. He feels bad that they have to go through life like that. He can mock me into next week, that’s me, that’s what I’m here for—and he is _so weird_ and I think about it all the goddamn time, but I’m not gonna tell you about most of that shit, because he has an office job and I don’t want his coworkers knowing too much about his business.

By the way, that does mean that if there’s a guy in your office who sounds like what I’m about to describe, you should definitely start spying to try and work out if he’s secretly engaged to a second-rate comedian. Or, you can just skip that step, and assume that is my secret fiancé. I don’t care where you live. I am engaged to every office weirdo in every city in every state in the continental U.S.

So what can I tell you about my fiancé, without compromising his privacy too badly? What can I tell you, what can I tell you? I mean, there’s so much to talk about. Human beings are nuanced, and, like, we’re middle-aged gays. We had to form backup personality traits because we were closeted for so long. So if I were going to describe him, I guess I’d say… I’m not saying that there’s a kind of guy who takes a gun to work.

Oh-ho. Oh-ho, you see now why I’m not saying his name, aren’t you? You didn’t expect that. No, no, this is a joke, this is a personality type, my fiancé would never do something like that, mass shootings are not funny, they’re very dangerous, they’re tragic when they happen, there are too fucking many of them in the United States because we won’t give up our fucking guns, I—yeah. I’m not trying to report anything, I’m not trying to start anything, I’m just… describing a general personality type. And I’m not _saying_ that there’s a kind of guy who takes a gun to work. I’m not. And I’m not just saying that because, for a long time, that was my major demographic and I don’t know if any of them stuck around through my jack-in-the-box out of the closet thing. So instead, I’m just _telling_ you about… my fiancé. Just the kind of vibe he gives off. He’s just a dude, he’s just a guy, with a job, I’m a comedian, this is my job, don’t look at Steve, don’t look at him, look at me. I write my own shit now.

Now keep in mind that I lost touch with my fiancé from the time that we were teenagers until our shared mid-life crises back in 2016. You were there for mine, you know. For all I know, we might be out of touch again after this show, I don’t know, I like taking risks with things that are important to me, but also he spent a significant amount of money on this ring and I’m gonna bet on his willingness just to roll his eyes and go through with the wedding despite his better judgment. So, as far as I know, my fiancé was living life as a white, straight… Yeah, I know, I know—guy who lived at home, who had issues with his mother, who was angry and anxious one hundred percent of the time, who fought with his wife basically constantly, and his main source of entertainment was going online. And he was on, like, WebMD instead of like, radicalizing message boards or something, but I’m just saying, he was the type.

Now again, I’m not describing a certain type of man, not just because there are _so_ fucking many of them and I don’t know how many of them are in any place at any given time, including this theater because, as I mentioned earlier, some people threatened to kill me after I publicly announced how much I enjoy eating ass! And not in the usual way people threaten to kill me when I talk about eating ass! Like, this qualified as what we call “premeditation”! Steve was concerned! Steve said, “Would you like to talk less about eating ass?” and I said, “Steve! I have just come out of the closet! I am committed to being true to myself! To no longer being the promiscuous nymphomaniac misogynist you and I, for so long, allowed the world to think I was! Now I’m the monogamously-committed nymphomaniac white man, committed to one man and one dick, still going to fuck up in the public eye pretty frequently, but also going to fuck one ass and one ass only! And goddamn it, I’m going to tell people about it!”

Steve didn’t say that. I made that up. Steve asked me if I felt comfortable continuing with my tour as it was, and I said, “Fuck them and fuck you,” and now all of you have to put your phones in little bags and walk through metal detectors to come see my show, after you paid a lot of money for those chairs. So if you feel bitter about that, I’m sorry, and if you want that to change, then you should solve the problem of violence in America.

Anyway, I don’t know how many of _that sort_ of man are in a room at one time, and I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about my fiancé, and I’m marrying him, so soon I will know what room he is in most of the time forever, because for a significant portion of that time, I will also be in that room. And I’m not _saying_ that he should have been on a couple of watchlists, because why would those watchlists exist? He was a white, straight, underpaid, overworked, permanently stressed bureaucrat with issues with the two women he actually knew and talked to, and terrifying road rage, and no outlet for any of his stressors. Why would those be red flags for anybody or anything? It’s not like he was a brown middle schooler who was good at science or something.

And I’m not saying that my fiancé was the kind of guy who would bring a gun into a public space. I’m not. That’s horrible. He would never do anything like that. I’m just saying that… I am… glad we found each other, all right? And I know how that sounds, but I’m gonna be as honest as Steve will allow me to be about my sex life on stage, I’m not attracted to men who are ticking time bombs for committing atrocities, let me say that right now. My fiancé is a wonderful man and he will almost certainly let me back in the apartment when I go home after this. He respects women very much, far more than he respects me, and it’s very important to me that you know that I genuinely like this man, okay? I didn’t go into this relationship with the idea that I could “fix him” or something. Look at me. I’m not qualified to fix a leaky faucet. I am under no illusions about my own limitations. He’s great. My fiancé is great. He’s gonna be a great husband. Far better than I will be.

I just think about it, you know? Like after one of those mass shootings—what have there been, like, two hundred this year? If only there were something we could do about that. Like the societal equivalent of wildfires—we just have to let them happen, absolutely nothing we can do to stop them, just have to let them burn out, kill a bunch of our fucking kids, absolutely no preventative measures we could take for that. It’s a dangerous job, but hey, you agreed to it when you signed up to be thirteen years old and living in the United States.

And they always do these profiles on the kids, you know? The really sad profiles—with like the weeping mother and the fourth-grade class photo and—oh no, I’m talking about the fucking murderer here, folks, not the dead kids, I’m talking about the one who was taken into custody very tenderly by police officers who took time out of their busy days beating black children into the sidewalk, to talk this kid down and put him in the patrol car and full-on Simon and Garfunkel “save the life of my child” and everything. You’ve seen those profiles. Yes you have. Yes you have. We all have. We all have. They fill the same public scrutiny void that those Sarah McLachlan animal shelter commercials do, but for like the rest of the year, not just Christmas.

And those profiles are always like, “He was a wonderful student, played contact sports, had lots of friends, here’s a picture of him with a dead animal on the first day of deer season”—yikes—“Had a longstanding flirtation with a girl who accused him of groping her in gym class last year, but her dad and the principal convinced her to accept his handwritten apology note in which he misspelled her name”— _double yikes_ —“And when he finally worked up the courage to ask her to prom and she said no, she was going with her boyfriend of three years, unfortunately, _unfortunately,_ he was just _so overcome_ with disappointment…. he just had to kill two-thirds of his graduating class.” And, like, who hasn’t done that?

So these profiles get posted on Facebook and then you scroll down to see the comments, because you’re a fucking moron—you’re at a Trashmouth Tozier show, you’re a fucking moron, I’m sorry, that’s just how it is—and you see all the comments: “Oh, she should have taken him to prom.” “Oh, she should have given him a chance.” And like, NO!

He’s exactly the same person _before_ he kills thirty people that he is _after_ he kills thirty people. If my daughter—I don’t have a daughter, God won’t inflict that kind of misfortune on a teenage girl—but if my daughter came home and said, “This guy asked me to prom, but I think he’s the kind of guy who would snap and kill everyone around him if he experienced even one disappointment in life, should I be nice and give him a chance?”

I would say, “NO.” I would say, “NO, and by the way, your father and I have been researching cyber school, because on top of the bullying that you get for having two dads, one of whom is a professional fuckup, I am _terrified_ to let someone I am responsible for out into the world! Have you seen the outside? Outside allows _me_ out there! I’m allowed out there! There are more of me out there! And I’m not even the worst that there is! Please, stay inside! You can come out of the house when you’re thirty and have gained your black belt in karate, your dad got us a coupon for family lessons, so you’ll get to practice kicking at least two men in the face!”

Would you take Ted Bundy to prom? I’m not talking about new hot Ted Bundy played by the Disney Channel kid, I’m talking about original flavor old gross Ted Budy. You wouldn’t! No one would take Ted Bundy to prom! The receptionist at your IT computer farm is not personally responsible for, “Well, the Unabomber”—I don’t know where the Unabomber worked, let’s say in tech support—“the Unabomber asked me out for coffee, and I think that if I say no he’ll blow this building fucking sky high while I'm in it, so I guess I’ve gotta fuck him for the good of society.” That’s a _horrible_ thing to put on women! That’s _horrible_! And it’s not even true! The reason Charles Manson was Charles Manson was not that he wasn’t getting fucked enough! Any time anyone fucked Charles Manson was too many times! You cannot tell me that the Manson family did not live with him in some weird unsexy version of _Hannibal_ —I mean the version before they put in the dramatic lighting, before they added the music and the cinematography, before Mads Mikkelsen and the guy with the big blue eyes were cast, before most of America got awkward boners over a body shoved into a horse uterus— _that was the Manson family! It was just weird and everybody was fucking all the time!_ Charles Manson fucked, and he was _still Charles Manson_ , and we cannot ask women to sleep with dangerous men to talk them down from the ledge beyond which they might just kill a ton of people in public. We cannot! They don’t have to do that! Women don’t have to do that!

I’ll do it.

I’m just saying—I’m just saying that the man who is now my fiancé used to be so angry all the time. And once he saw my dick, he finally took a chill pill. He finally calmed the fuck down. All of his issues with why he was so uncomfortable with women—solved; all the questions of why he was so upset with his wife and his mother—that’s fine, now, we understand; why he was so stressed out, why he couldn’t relax, why nothing did it for him—we know. It’s okay. He wasn’t a ticking time bomb after all; he was a potato clock made by a Lebanese seventh-grader for the science fair. It’s okay. I fixed it, guys. Gay sex is the answer.

I’m not saying that there’s a kind of guy who commits spree killings, I’m just saying that, if you’re the kind of man who comments “she should have given him a chance!” on those posts on Facebook—matter of fact, if you’re the kind of guy who comments on Facebook at all—and you think there’s a guy in your office who’s throwing up some red flags—you gotta fuck him, dude. You gotta give him a chance.

I’m just saying—when my fiancé comes home and he’s all pissed from a day at the office because he has a real job and he has to listen to other people talk and do math all day and shit, and he’s like, “The guy in my cubicle insists on eating at his desk, which would be FINE”—and I can tell that it would not be fine, by the way, because that’s how he says it, he says “FINE”—“it would be FINE if he knew how to chew with his mouth shut, and I have just had it up to _here_ with this office, and if I killed him _NO JURY WOULD CONVICT ME_ ,” I say, “you are so right, babe,” and then I get down, and I suck his dick, because I’m A REAL AMERICAN. I blow my fiancé as often as he will let me, and I do it for you—and you—and you—and you, and he has _never_ killed anyone. Yet. That I know of. And he will definitely want to, when I go home! He will definitely want to kill me for saying all of this. But he will not! Because if he does, who else is going to ride his dick like it’s the fuckin’ Fourth of July? With patriotic zeal! “Oh say can you see?” No, I can’t, babe, my eyes are watering too hard, do you have a permit to concealed-carry that thing? _No you do not!_ We live in California!

Thank you, you’ve been great, good night!

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I almost tried to anonymize this, but I figured you would all know it was me, so I went ahead and referenced my own fic. Anyway.
> 
> me: I'm gonna have to post this shit goddamit [sic]  
> qianwanshi: God you have to  
> qianwanshi: Richie gets one review about how his material is better but could do without the dick sucking bits and Richie's next set is 100% dick sucking centered material


End file.
